Where's Cricket?

Many is the time I wish the Smith cat would disappear, especially when he decides he wants his breakfast at three in the morning. I also suspect he has Munchausen’s Syndrome (causing self-harm to get attention), such as when he faked a cancerous lesion (ka ching at the local veterinarian to find out it was a scratch from a stick).

Nonetheless, he is much loved, and I would be distraught if he were to go missing. As you all no doubt know by now, Nicky Watson’s "chuwawa" Cricket has gone missing – last seen at Matarangi. Now – New Zealand is a very small country – it can't be that hard to find the wee fellow.

Everyone – go check your pockets, handbags, and under stray bits of dust. His mother wants him back desperately. Contact details are on 'Pets on the Net' if you have any information. Proper information, don’t be a nong and make something up.

Where's Cricket?
Capri pants! Who told Auckland women these were permissable to wear? Someone needs to own up, and get the sound thrashing they deserve. My walk along Ponsonby Road yesterday, in the glorious sunshine, was irrevocably ruined by these cropped affronts to the senses. I would no sooner recover from one pair, when another pair would stride stumpily into view. Beach – yes. Home – if you must. In the city – non! I get all the fashion mags, and I do not recall seeing these horrible things gracing models elegantly wasted limbs.

Remember the words of Trinny and Susannah – one’s legs only look as long as one’s trousers – and Auckland’s women are looking like extras from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.

Take them off at once, and put some proper clothing on.

Update: Au revoir, Cricket.

Traffic

As you know, I possess no degree of fondness for 'chain emails,' but received this in my in-box the other day, which I thought I would share. Apologies if everyone else simultaneously received in their in-boxes as well.

Rules for Going to Auckland

1. You must learn to pronounce the city name. It is "Ork - Lund ", not "JAFATOWN."

2. Forget the traffic rules you learned elsewhere. Auckland has its own version of traffic rules... Hold on and pray. There is no such thing as a dangerous high speed chase in Auckland. We all drive like that.

3. All directions start with, "Go down the motorway"

4. The morning rush hour is from 6:00AM to 10:00AM. The evening rush hour is from 3:00PM to 7:00PM. Friday's rush hour starts Thursday morning.

5. If you actually stop at an orange light, you will be rear-ended, abused and possibly shot. When you are the first one off the starting Line, count to five when the light turns green before going, to avoid getting into any cross-traffic's way.

6. K' Road can ONLY be pronounced by a native Ork-Lunder.

7. Construction on motorways & other main streets in peak traffic is a way of life and a permanent form of entertainment.

8. If someone actually has their turn signal on, it is probably a factory defect.

9. All old ladies with coloured hair in a crappy car have total right-of-way.

10. The minimum acceptable speed on Motorway is 120 kph. Anything less is considered downright dangerous.

11. Never stare at the driver of the car with the bumper sticker that says, "Keep honking, I'm reloading." In fact, don't honk at anyone.

12. If you are in the fast lane, and only going 100 km in a 100 km zone, people are not waving when they go by.

13. The Auckland Harbour Bridge road is our daily version of Speedway. There are plans to rename it Western Springs Waikaraka Park Bridge.

Gossip?

Are Gilda and Michael Boulgaris now frenemies? They seem to have removed each other from their respective Facebook pages, but, who knows. People come into your life for a reason, a season... or $35K pocket-money a month, whichever comes first.

Thought; Why is she now dubbed "Gilda K" in Le Media? Is a record deal in the making? Are her image-consultants re-branding her as a low-fat breakfast cereal? A tampon? You tell me.

On the same lines, one can't believe Metro thought Glucina's Sunday gossip round-up of Justin Timberlake’s Auckland presence was a winner – perhaps the Metro writers got a different edition of the newspaper than mine. My paper only had an entirely unthrilling account of how Mr Timberlake went through a McDonald's drive-through, and then someone spilt orange juice in the car. The obituaries were more titillating.

Glucina tried to get the McDonald’s security footage – bugger! To no avail. How my heart yearns to see Mr Timberlake's driver getting his change.

Glucina's sneaky snapper Norrie has a much more entertaining account of the "Where’s Timberlake?" mystery. To put it baldly – Norrie should be doing the writing as well as the snapping, and leave Glucina to hang around McDonald's drive-throughs, as she so clearly likes to do.

Hurrah!

Found this test at lovely Lita's.

How fab am I! Seems wagging all those English classes at school did me no harm.

And if you don't like my blog, it's because you are dumb.

Gifts

Christmas, for many, is fraught with indecision – what to buy a loved one? If you are poor, I imagine the process is quite simple – a bucket of KFC and a packet of ciggies would probably suffice, but for those in a more genteel social category, the art of finding The Perfect Gift can be difficult to master.

Regarding a certain birthday present, commenter Whaleoil provides this sound advice;

The first is the Rule of Reciprocity. So if someone gives you an iPhone valued variously between $690 -$1100 depending on where you get it from then you need to spend at least that on their reciprocal present. That then leads to … (the) Rule of Escalation. If someone spends $690 on an iPhone for a present for you then you have to add at least 20% to up the ante.

How very mathematical and clever! I confess to counting on my fingers, so for those who are similarly numerically-disabled, here are my rules;

Good presents
Gift Rule #1; Buy something either very large, or very small. This sounds odd – but true. The best things in life are either very large, or very small. Mercedes – very large, diamond-encrusted thingys – very small, etc.

Bad presents
Flowers. Flowers are perfectly lovely for everyday, apologies, and Valentine’s Day, but otherwise should never be given unaccompanied by something with a bow on it (refer to Rule #1). “But why?” men cry, “Women like those flower things!” Here’s Gift Rule #2 – Anything that can be procured at a petrol-station does not make for a pleasing gift. It reeks of minmal effort.

Practical things. Gift Rule #3; Anything really useful makes a rotten present. Does the person really need it? Don’t buy it. A good gift should be entirely unnecessary - that's the definition of luxury.

Apparel and perfume. Actually, potentially really fabulous things to receive, but an area that is a veritable minefield of wrongness waiting to blow off the giver’s limbs. A dear friend once received lingerie for Christmas – size large. If a lady is large (the Dear Friend wasn’t, which made it worse), I don’t think being reminded of it before Christmas luncheon would be very nice.

And perfume is a very personal thing – not something to guess at. But if one insists on traversing this dangerous territory, make sure it is:
a. V. Expensive,
b. Has a pleasing name.

Perfume is a gift of intimacy, thus, getting a perfume called ‘Alien’ (Thierry Muglar) wouldn’t be at all flattering, but ‘J’adore’ (Dior) would be.

Relations

Bad news – the next invasion of relatives are on their way. They are not due until February, but due to the nature of the people coming, battle-plans are being drawn up now.

I think I will need to get my sofa reupholstered, and paint! I need paint! And am thinking of asking my cleaner to draft in every relative she has from the islands (probably thousands, knowing how these types like to pop the babies out) to start cleaning. A single mote of dust is enough to provoke Herr Relative's disdainful smirk. Am beginning to think it may be easier to just buy a new house.

Good lord – forget the house, I'll need to send the islanders out to give the entire city a polish up.

Stare-Bears

Bloody hell! Sitting around the house doing nothing is dull work! What do beneficiaries do all day? If it's what I'm (not) doing, no wonder they all look so angry. I am sick of watching movies, although, while watching one of the Deathwish movies I recorded on MySky, I have decided I want a set of vintage 1970s Gucci luggage (Charles Bronson’s girlfriend had a set). Have scoured the internet for hours for a picture, but to no avail. This handbag is the closest I can find to the look.


Not quite right. The set I want is canvas (un-monogrammed, natch).

Boredom also means smoking far too many cigarettes, which is bad, as the information sheet states that smoking inhibits the healing process. The sheet also has an omission – it says that after surgery one "should not smoke for nine consecutive." Nine consecutive what? I decided it meant nine minutes, so lit up as soon as I got home (at which the leaking begun, which probably served me right).

Wanted fruit on the weekend, so drove to a supermarket on the outskirts of Auckland, far from the prying eyes and gabby mouths of those I know and loathe. Thank goodness for the fashion of giant sunglasses! Personally, I hate the look, but had bought a pair from World anyway, as knew they would do the job of covering most of my leaky face. Proved difficult selecting produce with them on, though, so had to take them off.

Goodness, what a load of impolite stare-bears reside outside the confines of the civilised world. How people gaped in open interest! I am certain they thought I had a contagious skin disease, as they shunned any produce section I ventured near. I coughed into my hand a few times before touching the fruit, just to really scare them.

Have also informed Mr Smith that should I run into anyone I know, I shall have to tell them he beat me, because of course, the first rule of Surgery Club, is you never talk about Surgery Club.

Thought of the Day; One day, when mini surgery theatres are operating in all the malls across the Western World, wrinkles will be The Next Big Thing. The Fashionable Set will be having crows-feet implants. You read it here first.

Milestones

A week's worth of milestones – it is now a year and a day since I started this blog. I am surprised it is still going. Many is the day my beautifully manicured finger is poised over the "delete this blog?" button – but as yet I have not been caught out, although should you revisit this site one day to find I have gone, I am sure you can imagine why.

And another milestone; I visited a certain clinic this week. When it comes to these things, I have always thought "never say never," but now I say "never again." While it wasn't terribly painful, it was demoralising to say the least, and my face is leaking something most unpleasant. I realise now that no matter what you do, it is never going to be good enough.

Father Time is far too clever to be fooled by a bit of surgical jiggery-pokery. How long can women fake youth, before they no longer look 30-something, but just a really peculiar fifty-something?

The receptionist read my form. "Oh," she said brightly, "you're only a few years older than me!" Curses! I know that tone too well – it said, "Ha ha! I look waaaay younger than you, Grannie!" I know the tone, because I have used it myself on others. But she was right. Her face was as smooth and white and unlined as a freshly boiled egg. I spent the afternoon recovering, watching movies and scrutinising actresses crows-feet.

So. It was all rather depressing. I told Mr Smith I didn't think I would ever do this again, and he would just have to accept that I would one day turn into a wizened old crone. He said, "Never mind, you'll be my wizened old crone," by which I know he meant well, but I had hoped for something a bit more flattering.

Another thought; You know how some clothing shops put those vanity mirrors in their dressing rooms – that make you look extra thin? I think the clinic had one of those too, except a mean version. Bloody hell! What a sight! Perhaps they do it so ladies come rushing into theatre screaming "Forget the cost, give me one of everything."

Well. Fuck that.

Deviancy

Over at the NZBC, dear Mr Stratford ponders the concept of prostitute review sites;

"… one wonders why these guys don't just get girlfriends. At £300 an hour for two temporary "girlfriends", or £120 for one, wouldn’t it be cheaper? And, well, nicer?"

Nicer! What a dear, sweet man! I want to top him off with whipped cream and strawberries, and serve him up at my next luncheon. However, I should point out that 120 pounds ($NZ300 +) an hour really wouldn't get you much of a girlfriend. Try waving that pocket change around the viaduct, and a gentleman wouldn't get so much as a peck on the cheek.

To be quite practical about these things, if someone were to add up the amount of money spent on a girlfriend, and divide that by the number of oral visitations received, it would no doubt be fiscally far more sensible to pop up and see Crystal in the Egyptian Room every so often.

Which brings us to the next thought, the odd things people do in the name of sexual gratification. The English seem to be infamous for a few things, like an aversion to bathing, and more pertinently, spanky hanky-panky. The English love a good whipping, and, funnily enough, most of them deserve it, but is it just an English thing?

My thoughts are that sexual deviancy (for want of a better turn of phrase) is very much like the English language.
-It is practiced everywhere.
-It is taught to the highest standard at boarding schools.

To some, after years of ‘lights out’ in a room full of pubescent school-friends, a menage-a-quatre is verging on monogamy, and youthful memories are happily recalled over an expertly-wielded paddle. But what is deviant these days anyway? One is shocked by very little anymore. I saw a woman in Newmarket yesterday, wearing a silver sequin mini-dress (at ten in the morning! And with thighs like that!), which made me recoil in horror, but someone's giggled confessions about a (male) paramour’s predilection for parading in panties is a dull respite between courses.

One begins to wonder if the only true deviancy these days is "niceness." It certainly is unusual enough.

Coronary

Once upon a time, in a suburb not so very far away, lived a beautiful model. At least, she was beautiful, until the evil fairy godmothers Time and Chronic Bulimia waved their magic wands and made the beautiful model look a bit odd. Anyway, the (now not so) beautiful model lived in a white house, and every room and everything inside it was white too – all the walls, all the carpets, and all the furnishings, except for the occasional fur throw rug in a tastefully contrasting shade. The model so loved the colour white, she even dressed her children in it.

What a frightening house it was. Visitors were rather afraid to do anything in the house, lest a single drop of wine should accidentally mar the perfect house, which would make the model scream and turn into a wild-eyed monster armed with spray carpet-cleaner.

The End

It was some time ago I visited the model's house, but I thought of her while reading 'Japanese Women Don’t Get Old or Fat,' by Naomi Moriyama. The author describes her mother's kitchen as being tiny – no bigger than the average Western wardrobe, with surfaces piled high with cooking utensils and ingredients. A garden with parsley and tomatoes grew outside the door. The refrigerator was too large to fit in the kitchen, and had to reside in the dining room.

It made me think about all the kitchens I have ever seen – the best and most stylish display no evidence of any cooking utensils or food preparation, the thought of a refrigerator being in the dining room is risible. The model's kitchen looked like a surgical operating theatre – and everyone would murmur how wonderful it looked, admiring the space and bare granite surfaces.

I can't help but think this says something about relationships with food. Is the kitchen still the 'heart of the household' it used to be? The cold, bare surfaces found in the fashionable home suggest major coronary disease if it is.

I bought a mortar and pestle on the weekend, and left it sitting on the bench. My small act of style rebellion, although I haven't quite worked out what to do with it yet.

P.S. Just noticed - this my 200th post! Hurrah!

I Spy With My Little Eye

Saw Michael Boulgaris in Ponsonby today. While it is lovely that he is growing a ‘tache for Movember, I do wish someone would wean him off the over-sized Gucci accessories - someone might mistake him for one of those homosexual types if he’s not careful.

Is leopard-print the new black?


The NY Times thinks so. Why not? All things trashy are now a la mode. We already have the ubiquity of the strippers Brazilian, suburban housewives pole-dancing... Next week, fashionistas everywhere change their names to Chynna or Shanahyah.

To my immense shame, I rather like the YSL gloves.

Are Russian Brides the new Filipino? Yes.

Movember

It's Movember, the one time of year that men can grow a moustache, and not look a fool.

Every year in New Zealand 2,656 men are diagnosed with prostate cancer and about 600 die of the disease, making prostate cancer the second largest cause of male cancer deaths, after lung cancer.

Not only is prostate cancer not at all nice, a diminishing male population means less men to buy me presents and champagne, so even if you don't wish to grow a soup-strainer on the old visage, I do insist that all men go for yearly check-ups of their man-bits.

Seriously - my father has prostate cancer. The doctors are very optimistic that all will be well, as it was caught early.

Anyway, I don't much care to write about politicians, as I would rather write about people who really matter, but I do wonder about the mental fortitude of our Prime Minister;

In response to early Guy Fawkes celebrations,

Helen Clark said the noise of fireworks in her home suburb of Mt Eden was horrific on Saturday night.

"Last night in my suburb, I felt as if I was in downtown Kandahar [in Afghanistan]," she said.

Horrific! Kandahar! Oh my! Helen has rather let the (female) side down. Would a male leader react this way to the sound of traditional community festivities? Imagine if Winston Churchill had thus quailed at the high-spirits of rowdy morris dancers;

"The noise of the co-ordinated foot stomping was horrific. I felt as if I was in downtown Gallipoli," etc, and then called for all handkerchiefs and clogs to be banned.

Downtown Gallipoli
I suggest Ms Clark invest in some ear-plugs, or else have a lie-down and a large gin, and let someone less sensitive take the reins for a while.

Pavlov

The demure Cactus Kate draws one’s attention to the naked pool-side frolics by New Zealand’s favourite scr...apper, Aja Rock. I am reminded of a certain lad-about-town, who had a fondness for dating strippers (well – why not?). However, he didn’t like taking them to clubs or bars.

"You can't take them anywhere," he would grumble, "without them wanting to take their clothes off."
His expectations, I think, were wholly unrealistic. Strippers, not dissimilar to Pavlov's dogs, are conditioned to perform under certain circumstances, such as when a (musical) stimulus is supplied.

One then should not be surprised by Miss Rock's public nudity. However, I'm more interested to know what happened when six men stripped down and jumped in the pool with her. Thinking again about prior-conditioning, you know, from a purely scientific perspective.

Burgers

The writer for Viva magazine in the NZ Herald thinks 'Handmade Burgers' in Kingsland makes Auckland's best burger - and says;

"Burger Fuel may have gone public and have far better coverage with its many outlets, but Handmade Burgers in Kingsland wins where it counts - in the tummy."

Apart from finding it annoying that an adult would use the word 'tummy,' I disagreed heartily for these reasons:

1. I went there once about five (?) years ago, and was subjected to the most hideously awful cack ever to profess to be a burger. Dreadful! I never went back.


2. Many restaurant reviewers don't know their anus from their mouth. I have been to quite a few restaurants on the 'best of Auckland' type lists, to be thoroughly underwhelmed. The Maple Room in Remuera? You have got to be fucking kidding me.


3. I have always thought Burger Fuel entirely marvellous.


4. As a founding shareholder in Burger Fuel, I may be a tad biased.

So, I thought I would try it again, and decide for myself.

Handmade Burgers, 455 New North Rd, Kingsland.
First of all, the name is stupid. Handmade Burgers? As opposed to the ones made by robots elsewhere?

Burger: The similarity of their menu to Burger Fuel cannot be dismissed as coincidence. The quirky names, the fillings, the aioli chips – rather deja vu. It was okay; the most I can say is that it was bland. No shortage of bloody lettuce. Mr Smith said his was "a bit dry."


No shortage of bloody lettuce.
Price: $9.50 (comparable burger at BF $8.90)
Service: The tiny shop was overflowing with dolts such as myself who read the Herald, but despite the crowds, the server maintained an impressively friendly disposition. A thousand thumbs-up to the chap.
Overall: NZers are consistently suspicious of success – they like something until it gets too popular, then bash it down in favour of an unknown underdog - a most unfortunate predilection. I can't help but think this is where the Viva preference stems from… because Handmade just isn't anywhere good enough to hold the award for 'Auckland's Best Burger.' I'm giving it to Burger Fuel. As in many things, bigger is better.
(P.S. Handmade's food hygiene certificate expired in August).

Junk. And Matthew Ridge.

Goodness! What a terrible mood everyone seems to be in – including myself. I got a telling off by a shop-assistant for not picking an item up earlier (bloody hell! It was paid for!), and I swore at my beauty therapist (the choice of words may not have been the best, but the sentiment was deserved), and Auckland drivers seem to be giving their horns a real work-out today. Is it a full moon?

Saw Naughty Norrie on Ponsonby Road armed with his camera, not that anyone of any interest was around, but photos of a strategically-placed Matthew Ridge at SPQR with a sour-faced blonde may be in the Sunday paper, I suppose.

Mrs L has picked up some terrible habits lately, one of which is thinking she is an American rapper.

"I really need to get on the treadmill more," she sighed, "I have far too much junk in my trunk."
I snorted convulsively.
"Junk in your trunk! Ha ha! What have you been smoking?"
She looked defensive.
"You may not keep up to date with these things, Mrs Smith, but I do. Bet you don't even know who Fergie is."
“What, the Duchess of… whatever. The dumpy redhead?” (I knew who she meant. I just felt like being annoying).
She rolled her eyes. "The singer with the Black-Eyed Susans."
I tittered, but she continued, unfazed.
"Anyway, you used 'fo'shizzle' for ages, Mrs Smith, no matter how irritating it became, which was almost immediately."
Well! "That’s hardly the same," I said, "I was being ironic."

We sighed heavily in unison. It was, without doubt, the silliest conversation any two human beings have ever engaged in, which is saying something, coming from me, but I was annoyed and my face was stamped with a scowl for at least another hour (Note to Self: Must ask surgeon about Botox).

AND it has started to rain, so all in all, not a good start to the weekend.

Cool

For those who like a stylish home, floors and walls are carefully decorated, but when one thinks about it, the ceiling just hangs about doing nothing. So why not hang your plants from it?



Yes! Upside-down! The plants don't seem to object, and they "use up to 90% less water than a conventional planter," which may be of interest to those who care about such things (I don't water my plants at all, which is 100% less water, but the plants don't seem to appreciate this).

This 'Antipodes Planter' is created by New Zealand designer Patrick Morris, who is in the process of opening a new shop in Ponsonby (down the alleyway, next to Agnes Curran). When I called in, the designer's brother was still painting the place, but it will apparently be open for business some time this month.

I think these are pretty fab. Bonkers, but fab.